Chasing the Wind
by Swevens
Summary: Melody March has been on the run her entire life, never knowing why. When she's separated from her mother and taken in during a Ministry raid, Mel is pulled into a post-war world where tensions run high and the right alliances mean everything. Not least alarming is the inevitable reunion with the father she'd thought dead; maybe the very reason her mother ran scared 15 years before
1. End of the Chase

The night is black when a rough hand lands on my shoulder, followed so fast by a finger to my lips that I don't have time to sound an alarm; good thing, too, because as my eyes quickly adjust, the tall, shadowy figure bent over me becomes my mother.

Compounding the urgency of a midnight wakening, Mom's pale eyes glint with fear even in the dim light. She hands me my ring in the darkness and I fumble with it, almost dropping it when the front door is kicked in with such sudden ferocity that even Mom freezes or a hair of a second.

She recovers quickly and whips her wand out. Even as she sends a blast of magic at the figures bursting through the doorway, we're running through the open interior of the little cabin. Another blast of magic, this time ahead, sends the back door flying apart in splinters, and I raise a hand to shield my eyes from debris as I follow Mom out into the night.

Our pursuers, the same we've been running from for over a year, must've been expecting to catch us more off-guard, as there's none yet waiting behind the cabin.

We sprint for the woods, and as we pass into the edge of the forest, a white-hot spell ricochets off of a sapling just to my right, spurring me faster onwards.

As we've practiced a thousand times, we split up at first opportunity, dividing the dozen or so wizards behind us. I don't dare take the time to look back to see how many still pursue me, though I dig deep into my physical reserves and find the end of my speed.

Another lightning-like bolt of magic connects with a nearby tree, but my physical prowess puts me at enough of an advantage that it isn't long before my weaving, break-neck path begins to put some distance between me and them. I push myself ever forward, still not daring to glance behind.

Some time later, I find myself in less-familiar territory. I chance a slow-down, unwilling to run straight off of a cliff or into a ravine, both featured heavily in the wild landscape. After a few more moments, I've calmed enough to slow my breathing; unfortunate, because with my guard dropped, I don't hear any sort of warning before the cloaked figure flies out from my right, tackling me right to the ground.

Panicked and no longer worried about hiding my own magic use, I blindly cast a disarming spell at the man. Unprepared for the attack, but obviously impeccably trained, his left hand is reaching to catch his wand mid-air, even as the right releases it.

As if to disarm me, he pins my wrists to the forest floor and I struggle futilely under his firm grasp, cursing (not for the first time) my small build.

Before I can figure out my next move, more robed figures appear between the trees, surrounding the two of us, a dozen wands aimed right at me. Prepared to enact my final, last-ditch emergency plan, I glance in anticipation of how I might pull it off. The slightest movement, high in a nearby tree, draws my gaze to a golden owl sitting just back from the scene below.

So slightly that I almost miss it, the owl shakes its head, as my attacker, surrounded safely by backup, pulls me to my feet.

"Are you alright?" he asks, pulling my gaze back down to eye level. Or rather, almost eye level, since me entire height doesn't reach even to the man's shoulder.

I don't reply, and with hardly a whispered "lumos," he lights the tip of his wand, shining it in each of my eyes in turn. I refuse to shy away from the sudden examination, and stare right at the bright light. It isn't long, though, before he withdraws his wand, holding the light back at a more comfortable distance.

"What is your name?" he asks then, almost-conversationally. Still, I give my captors no answer.

"Say the word, and I'll get her talking," one of the others interjects. There's an edge in the voice that chills me, but the dark-haired man questioning me sends him a look that the second man dares not challenge further.

"Do you know your name?" he rephrases, turning his attention to me.

A last, fleeting glance upwards finds the owl gone, and I resign myself to defeat, or as close to it as I can allow.

"I know yours," I say instead, staring up at the strangely familiar face. My voice, unused since I woke what seems like an age ago, takes on a huskier edge.

"You're Harry Potter."


	2. What is to be Done

A few hours later, thanks to legendary auror and one-time boy-hero, Harry Potter, and his apparating ability, I'm sitting in a little white-walled room in the Ministry of Magic. It's a setting wholly unfamiliar to me, having been raised between seedy muggle motels and 'rustic' abandoned shelters far off the grid, and I'm more than a little uneasy.

Momentarily, the door opens to admit a man much older than Mr. Potter, but whose bespectacled eyes are not unkind. He takes a seat across from me at the little table, the only furnishing in the room. Slowly, he reaches into his robe and produces a large red apple, which he offers to me, like a token of peace. When I don't accept it, he stretches his hand out further, encouragingly.

"Haven't you ever heard of Snow White?" I ask, and though his hand drops then at my obvious refusal, I'm not surprised at the confusion noted by his furrowed brow.

"I'll have the kitchens prepare something more appetizing at the earliest convenience," he says, still diplomatic, as he tucks the apple back out of sight.

Though I am scared almost-senseless, refusing the apple was more a show of defiance than anything. if they wanted me dead, there were far simpler methods at their disposal than poison. Other than using magic to confine me to this chair, my captors have been surprisingly gentle.

"Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?" he tries next, silently imploring me to cooperate.

A long silence sits between us. The old man shifts his weight and switches tactics.

"My name is Olivier Florence," he tries. "I'm a sort of manager, here. Too old now for field work, you see. We've brought you to the Ministry of Magic. Do you know where that is?"

Unwilling to sit and listen to him explain such basic knowledge as if I'm a child, I reply after only a slight pause.

"We're in London," I answer, trying then to estimate what time it is here. Roughly between eight and midnight, which I realize accounts for some of this Florence's weariness.

"So you do know at least the basics," he says, and I mentally kick myself for giving up that information. "You may know a bit about us," he continues, "but we know very little indeed, about you, Miss March. Could you tell me your first name?"

March? "You must be mistaken," I say, confused by the certainty on the wizened face. "That's not my name."

Florence clucks sympathetically. "Of course, she'd used an alias. Your father, Alexander March, has been searching for you for a long time. How much do you know about your father?"

"I have no father," I reply, though I can hear the confusion in my own voice. I clear my throat and Florence clucks again.

"While it's wonderful that we've found you at last, the timing is a tad off," he starts again. "You see, your father is away on an important business trip and is currently unreachable. As such, it leaves us at a bit of an impasse-"

He's interrupted by the quiet _snick_ of the door, which opens to reveal the man responsible for my being here.

"Wasn't expecting you back in, Potter," Florence says, attention diverted from me. "Aren't you missing your niece's birthday?"

"I made the dinner. They understand. I can take over here, Florence. Been a long day for you."

"If you're sure," the older man replies, slowly drawing himself to his feet. "Don't keep her there too long; she'll be hungry and, I'd imagine, at least as tired as we are."

"No need to worry, Florence," he says, settling into the empty chair. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He waits until the door closes behind him before turning his attention to me.

"My name is Harry Potter," Harry Potter says, pushing his glasses up. "Though like most, you seem to know that already. Would you tell me your name?"

I study him in silence, comparing the man before me to the legend from Mom's stories. Unquestionably the same man, with his unruly dark hair, though no match for mine, sticking every which way as stubbornly as it had two decades before, paired with the same green eyes hidden behind amusingly outdated spectacles. Yet there was a wisdom to his face now, traced in the starting wrinkles lining his mouth and gathering in the corners of his eyes. In the bright light, I can pick out the dusting of grey hair starting at his temples. His overall pleasant appearance and relaxed manner sets me at ease, though as before, I still don't give up my name.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asks instead.

"Olivier Florence said it's because of my father," I repeat, and he nods in affirmation. "But Mr. Potter, my father died before I was born. There's been a mistake."

"Please, you can call me Harry," he says. "As for your father, he is very much alive. You look very much like him, as you'll no doubt see for yourself when you meet him. However, he's away on business and not expected to return until next summer, at the earliest. I didn't expect it to be a problem, since your mother had slipped off our radar until last week, when one of our informants spotted her at a tavern in Mongolia. He was able to tell us where she was headed next."

Mongolia? That was nowhere near where we'd been a week ago. When did Mom have time to sneak off? And why sneak there?

"He has no other living relatives, which leaves the question of what is the best we can do for you in the meantime," he continues. "Have you any formal education? You've already demonstrated some level of magical ability, but a life on the run would make learning difficult."

"My mother is an excellent teacher," I defend, raising my chin to him.

"She may well be, but the magic one can do undetected is limited. Have you a wand?"

I give my head the slightest shake.

"Very interesting," he says, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "I'd thought maybe you'd gotten a hold of it in a pocket when you tried that spell in the forest. I'm impressed. Still, we'd best get you your own wand as soon as possible; there's not much time until the school year starts, and we'll need to get an idea of where you're at compared to the rest of your year."

"You're going to send me to school?" The thought is so foreign I can't decide if it's exciting or terrifying.

"We'll have to run it by the Ministry, as well as the school board, but yes," he answers. "I think it would be the best place for you, at least until your father returns and can decide what he thinks is best. But, it's getting late, and you've a long day ahead if you're to get properly outfitted for school. If you'd like, I'll show you to your rooms and have a nice meal brought to you there, Miss March."

He pulls out a wand even as he's speaking, and gives a little wave, lips forming a spell his voice doesn't reveal, and my invisible constraints are gone. For only a second, I consider trying to get past him to the door beyond.

Instead, I stand slowly, a movement he mirrors. "You can call me Mel."


	3. The Minister for Magic

When I finally fall into bed, stomach full, hair damp and exhausted, the reality of my dreams proves to be just as eventful.

 _I spend my night chasing my mother through ever-changing scenery; I lose sight of her in a dark forest, maybe the one where I was caught, and the scene changes, eerie moonlit mist the only thing I can see._

 _Suddenly, a hand lands on my shoulder; I turn my head, and find Mum standing right beside me, a reassuring smile on her lips. A large, midnight-black phoenix lands on her shoulder, and pecks at her mouth, like it's kissing her. Something glints in the moonlight, a wet, red stain against the fog._

 _'_ _You're bleeding,' I tell her, or try to; my words come out incoherent. She doesn't seem to feel the blood trickling from her mouth; it starts as a little trickle, and then she coughs as it pours from her mouth. Everything about this place is wrong. I hear myself yelling, the same nonsensical sound, though I know what I'm trying to say._

 _'_ _You're bleeding, Mum, you're bleeding!"_

 _That's when I look into her eyes, and my heart drops out of my chest as I stare into her colourless, blank eyes -_

 _And I scream._

X

"Miss!"

A strange, gentle voice pulls me out of the nightmarish fog, away from my mother's vacant, haunting eyes, and into a dimly lit, unfamiliar room where the scent of industrial cleaner is just a little too strong.

"Miss, it's just a dream!"

The hand is still on my shoulder, though, and I jump straight out of bed, heart racing. It only takes me a second to recognize that the hand I felt was actually this woman's, probably placed there in an effort to wake me from the fog-dream. Another glance is enough to me to gauge her age as no more than five or six years more than mine.

"Sorry," I say, self-consciously trying to smooth down my incorrigible hair. "I'm sorry. Who are you?"

"Lindy," she replies, cheeks pinking. "You're probably the first guest I've met here who's bothered to ask. You're Melody, right? I overheard a couple of aurors talking in the hall last night."

"Yeah, I'm Mel," I tell her. There's a stack of black robes – plain, but well-made – sitting on a chair beside the bed, and I pick them up. "How long have you been here?"

"Almost two years, now," she says, perking up proudly. "Hired right out of Hogwarts. Someday I want to be an auror; I've just got to retake a couple of my N.E.W.T.s, but I like being here in the meantime. Oh, I was meant to wake you – and then tell you that you can borrow those robes until you go today to get your own."

She turns bright red, realising she'd been rambling. "I'll let you dress; there are showers behind _that_ door there; if you need anything in the meantime, I'll be just outside in the hall."

"Okay," I say, glancing at the aforementioned door. "Thanks, Lindy."

The way she blushes again at that makes me wonder what sort of 'guests' the Ministry entertains.

I hurry through a shower of lukewarm water and do my best to calm my mane before joining Lindy in the hall.

"Right, then; the Minister is waiting to meet you," she says, starting off at a brisk pace that is much easier for her gangly legs to maintain. "He's a very important man, you know. Shouldn't keep him waiting."

I don't dount that, so I settle into a little half-jog to match her pace. Somehow, she manages to chatter all the way through the maze of halls and up an elevator. When she finally stops talking long enough to swing open a large, ornate door, I've learned that she's the second-oldest of five girls, and one of only two witches born to Muggle parents ("I was _ever_ so excited for Francie, when she got her letter – and she's _loads_ more talented than me!").

Lindy takes a breath and ushers me into a circular room, taking a spot between two stern-looking guards in black robes. The one I pass closest to makes such a point of ignoring Lindy that I'm sure he's ended up on the same end of her conversations as I was just subject to.

The door seals itself with a loud boom, and I jump in reaction, my eyes locating the only other person in the room. A man, large even sitting down, sporting a beautiful set of maroon robes is sitting calmly at a sizeable desk, the deep mahogany wood almost an exact match for his dark skin, shuffling slowly through a mass of paper.

"Please, take a seat," he says when he looks up, gesturing to the chair that appears in front of the desk. I glance back and realize that the girl hadn't followed me into the room, before turning back to face the formidable man alone. He waves his wand at the scattered papers strewn across it, creating a clear surface between us.

"A pleasure to finally meet you," he begins, with a kind smile that flashes his brilliantly white teeth, "though I am sure you don't share the sentiment. I'd imagine the situation looks quite different from your view. My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt, current Minister for Magic, though I am under the impression that you do not go by March?"

He offers a hand across the desk, and I surprise myself by standing to take it. "Melody Cassius, though I imagine you're going to tack 'March' onto the end of it."

"For official purposes, you are Melody March," he says. "It's how you'll be identified in a couple weeks, when you head to school. Between us, however, and anyone you associate with, you can still be Melody Cassius, at least as long as you're a ward of the Ministry."

"Thank you," I say, validated by the Minister's compromise and understanding.

"Now, as to our business today," he says, summoning a blank parchment scroll and a gold-gilded quill. "Your father's assistant will be here shortly to escort you to Diagon Alley to collect your school supplies. I'm told you don't yet have a wand? That will be top priority today, then. I would be interested at a later time to discuss how you've managed to learn to cast spells proficiently without one, and if that knowledge goes beyond disarming charms.

"For now, though, I'd like to ask a few basic questions," he continues, not pressing the subject now. "While we have your mother's records, you weren't yet born when she…left. We knew she'd been expecting you, but that's where our information ends. Could you tell me your birthday, Melody? If I may call you that."

"I prefer Mel," I say, permitting the less formal title. As with Harry Potter the day before, this man across the desk seems to genuinely care. "I was born May 1, 2006."

He writes that down on the paper. "Based on your father's statement, you were due about the middle of the month, so we weren't far off. Have you any idea where you were born?"

I shake my head. "Mom told me I was born during a spring blizzard, but she never said where."

"Hm," he responds, flourishing the quill. "That is going to give us some trouble in the matter of your nationality. Snow narrows it down, though, and we'll see what we can find on blizzards around then, they would be rare enough. In the meantime, because both your parents are British, you can adopt their nationality. Wouldn't be odd to send you to Hogwarts, either."

"I am to spend out the year there, then?" I ask, tense.

"Yes, or at least until we can contact your father," he answers, setting down the quill to focus on me. "It will be good, I think, for you to spend some time in a more stable setting, and with children your own age. Harry Potter, who you've met already I hear, has a son about your age. And the Weasleys' daughter will be in your year, too. I'm sure they both would be willing to help you adjust to scheduled schooling. Rose would make an excellent tutor, as well, should you have need."

"What if Mom shows up-"

"I'm afraid our ruling would still stand," Shacklebolt answers, setting his mouth sympathetically. "If your mother gives herself up, she will be subject to a court ruling as per your father's request. Should she be declared innocent of charges, I'd imagine there will be a lengthy custody battle, during which the courts would follow Ministry protocol and keep you at school until a decision is reached."

"What charges-"

The large door swings open again, and I turn to see a short, wiry man in a bowler hat strides in, suitcase in hand.

"Ah, Mr. Turner," Shacklebolt greets him, tone a couple degrees cooler than the one he'd used with me. Nevertheless, he stands graciously and offers a hand, which Mr. Turner takes and gives a crisp shake.

"Minister." His gaze lands on me, coolly appraising. "This is her, then?"

"This is Melody," the Minister replies, making eye contact with me as he gives the name. "I have been explaining to her what the Ministry has decided in terms of her short-term future."

"She is ready to collect her books?" Turner asks him.

Irritated, I speak before Shacklebolt can answer. " _She_ is ready, thank you."

"She'll need a wand today, as well," Shacklebolt adds, when Turner's cool gaze finally does meet mine, and remains there uncomfortably.

"I'll keep an especially sharp eye on the lookout for books on manners, and maybe by the time her father returns she'll know not to speak out of turn," he reproves. "As it is, I have an important meeting in two hours' time, so Miss March and I had better be off. Good day, Minister."

He's already striding for the door before I'm out of my chair.

"You'll love the Alley," Shacklebolt says kindly, and I give him a little smile before hurrying after Turner.

I catch up in the next corridor, and we weave through the Ministry silently, finally coming to a much wider chamber replete with two walls lined completely with fireplaces, green flames producing witches and wizards at irregular intervals. Turner finally comes to a stop in front of one such fire, and turns to me.

"Have you any idea what this is?" His tone is very demeaning, and I take an instant dislike to the man.

"It's the Floo Network," I answer coolly. I don't mention that I've only ever head of it; Mom didn't dare use it for fear of being tracked.

"Good. Your mother didn't totally ruin you," he says, stepping into the fire before I can respond. He grabs a handful of powder from a nearby dish and says, "Diagon Alley!" and disappears in a large plume of green flame.

Red-hot anger leads me into the fireplace unhesitatingly. Mirroring Turner, I grab a handful of powder and toss it down, repeating the words he'd used, closing my eyes as I lurch sickeningly upwards.


	4. Diagon Alley and an Introduction

When at last I open my eyes again, I find myself in a new fireplace, this one emitting its peculiar green glow into a rustic, bustling tavern. Transfixed, I study the tables and find to my amusement that most of those assembled look as though they are recovering from a particularly rough night.

"You'd best step out of there, if you're not zipping back out right quick; there's another person coming through now."

Startled, I take the proffered arm and leap into the room, right as another body crashes in behind me. When I do look up, I'm pleasantly surprised to see my would-be rescuer is a young man not far-removed from my own age, a tall, handsome boy with dark brown hair and a nicely tanned face.

"Thank you," I say, taking my hand back as the witch who arrived behind me brushes past us in a huff. "I'd imagine that wouldn't have ended well, if it weren't for you."

"Merlin's beard, Grenault!" I can hear the witch halfway across the room, and when I sneak a glance, I see her at some poor man's side, prodding him with her wand. "I told you I weren't goin' to stand for this no more! Get up this instant or mark my words, my stuff'll be up and gone when you drag your sorry self back home!"

"Ah, well," he says, lifting a broad shoulder in a shrug. The movement recaptures my attention, as the poor man Grenault stumbles out of his chair. "A bruise or two wouldn't have permanently detracted from your beauty. I'm Hale, by the way. Hale Thompson."

He offers his hand again, and I shake it this time. "Mel. Thanks again."

"What part of 'two hours' do you not understand, Miss March?" I drop Hale's hand in surprise as Mr. Turner steps into view. "Hogwarts' list is quite extensive, and I don't think you'll want to waltz in, last minute transfer, and not even be materialistically prepared!"

I drop Hale's hand again, under the pressure of Mr. Turner's disproving scowl. "Of course not," I say calmly. "I simply didn't know where you had went to so fast. Mr. Thompson saved me from a potentially dangerous mishap in the meantime."

Hale smiles at that, both of us ignoring the question on Mr. Turner's face. "You're transferring into Hogwarts?" he asks me, diverting the conversation.

"Not if she can't be bothered to complete her shopping today," Mr. Turner interrupts. "Mr. Thompson, I am sure your father, too, is in need of your presence nearby."

"I am sure," Hale agrees, with as near to a scowl as I can imagine crossing his pleasant face. "I guess I'll see you in September, Mel."

Mr. Turner is already off towards the door, but I turn back and give a little wave, one I'm gratified to find he returns.

Mr. Turner is already a couple doors down by the time I follow him outside, moving at an impressive pace for such a little man. The street I find myself in is surprisingly busy, for being such a narrow little cobblestoned street. The lack of vehicles and Muggle clothes leads me to believe that the location is possibly only accessible to magic-folk.

I am grateful for the generic robes lent to me by the Ministry; my own Muggle-style pajamas I'd been caught in the day before, because not a single person I slip past on the crowded street pays me any mind. Mr. Turner is just rounding a corner when I catch up to him.

"Books first, then robes," he says, not even bothering to glance down at me. "If you can stay focussed on those tasks, we'll have time to stop at Ollivanders."

"As the most important stop," I say, looking at the long list over Turner's shoulder, "I would rather go to Ollivanders first – and what about the Owl Emporium?"

"Books first, then – blast it, then. You can be trusted to dress yourself, I hope? Go get fitted for your robes and get yourself to Ollivanders, then, Merlin's beard! I'll make quick work of your books and other supplies, then, go on. And don't you so much as breathe out a _breeze_ of magic, or I'll be on you like mud on a squib – try run and you'll think back on the days you _could_ run with great fondness. I don't have time to hold your hand up and down the Alley."

I am impressed at the mottled red splotched across Turner's face, but resist cajoling him into further rage when he presses several gold coins into my hand and whirls back towards the book shop, stomping purposefully every step of the way.

With a shrug and the delicious thrill of freedom, I practically skip towards a shop towards the end of the street, advertising ' _Madame Malkin's – Robes for All Occasions_!"

The door chime tinkles when I swing it open, revealing a nearly-empty shop. A dumpy sort of woman, wrapped in bold purple hues, is busily sending measuring tape around to measure an even wider woman's bust.

"I'll be right with you," she calls out in a musical voice.

I take a seat on a nearby chair to wait, glancing around the shop as I do. The layout is similar to various Muggle tailor's I'd visited, minus the bewitched tapes, and the bundled robes along one wall, proclaiming, ' _Sets of all Houses! Uniform Sets! Cloak Sets! Fifty percent now until September_!'

I stand and move closer, peering at the colourful crests on the poster.

"You, I haven't seen in here before!" the purple woman exclaims. I jump as she joins me at the display. "You must be a first-timer – well, come! Come! We will get you measured straight away – have a good day, Ernesta, see you soon, yes?"

She ushers me up onto the circular platform, and no sooner has my second foot landed than the measuring tapes descend upon me, measuring everywhere – bust, waist, inseam, neck – even the length of my thumbs.

"What's your name, dear?" Madame Malkin asks conversationally.

I struggle a moment with my urge to fling the constricting tapes off of me before I can reply. "Melody," I manage, feeling quite claustrophobic.

"Pretty name," she says kindly, studying the tapes. "Have you any older siblings already at Hogwarts, Melody?"

"No," I reply. I have to consciously tell myself to take a deep breath, as one measuring tape decides to re-measure my neck.

"The first, how, exciting for you," she says gleefully. "I myself was second. Which house do you think you'll be Sorted into?"

"Uh," I stall, trying to think of the names. Mum seldom mentioned her school days, and drifting in and out of Muggle communities didn't exactly prepare me for this. "I don't know. Maybe the blue one?" I recall the stunning blue of the logo on the poster.

"Ravenclaw," she confirms, approvingly. "My House, too. I hope you get in. Our House colours would look gorgeous with your eyes, child. Well! There! Another measuring done – you might be the last of the year, actually. Cutting it pretty close, aren't you? Well, on the bright side, House sets are on discount if you want to spring for a Ravenclaw set now. Though I must say, child, and don't be embarrassed – but you're quite…developed….for eleven, hm? Runs in some families, that. Not mine, unfortunately – those didn't come in till the rest of me expanded!"

"Actually," I say, stepping down from the platform as she disappears into the back for fabric. The measuring tapes follow her, eager to measure the cloth to fit. "I'm fifteen – I'm transferring in, I guess you could say."

"A transfer, hm?" she replies, peeking back into the room in interest. "Don't get one of those very often. That explains the shape, though. You're little enough to pass for eleven, though. Petite, you are. That's okay, it means less cloth on my end."

"Which will be reflected in the cost, yeah?" I return, eliciting a laugh from the other room. I can see bits of fabric flying every which way down the little hall.

"You're a little mink, you are!" Her tone is light and amused, though, and I find myself relaxing, too.

In just a few moments, she appears again, carrying a heaping bundle of robes, mostly in black.

"I've put together a full set," she says, setting them on the counter. "I went ahead and guessed you mightn't have had the same dress code at your last school."

"I didn't," I say, thinking of my small pack of Muggle clothes that as far as I knew, were still in the cabin in the woods. "Thank you. How much does this all cost?"

She waves a hand. "For you, mink? I say, a galleon."

I hand her a gold one, and a couple sickles, which she tries to wave away.

"No, no, I'll give you a deal, I like a pert little thing to colour the day once in awhile."

"Consider it a thank you, then," I say, setting the sickles on the counter. "Thank you, Madame."

"My pleasure," she says with a smile, letting the silver coins sit. "You'll be just fine at Hogwarts, child."


End file.
